“You did it,” Wyatt corrects. “We just helped.”
People start packing up, loading tools into their trucks, and saying goodbye. Everyone refuses my offers of payment, reimbursement for supplies, or anything.
“Just keep the bar open,” a woman says. “That’s payment enough.”
When it’s finally just me and Wyatt standing in the cleaned and repaired bar, I feel tears threatening my eyes.
“Hey,” he says softly. “You okay?”
“I don’t know why they did this, why they helped me.”
“Because you’re one of us now, whether you realize it or not.”
“But I’ve only been here for a few weeks.”
“Doesn’t matter. You showed up, you tried, and you let people help. That’s all it takes.”
I look down at my hands. They’re dirty, stained, and blistered from a day’s work. I don’t think I’ve ever had a time in my life when my hands looked like this.
“Come on,” Wyatt says. “Let’s take care of those blisters before they get worse.”
He leads me to the office, where he pulls out the first-aid kit from one of the desk drawers. Of course, he has a first aid kit, and he knows exactly where it is, even though I’ve been in the office for weeks and never saw it.
“Sit,” he instructs.
I settle into the desk chair. He kneels in front of me and takes one of my hands. His touch is gentle as he examines the blisters on my palm, his fingers surprisingly soft.
“These aren’t too bad,” he says, “but we should bandage them so they don’t get infected.”
He cleans the blisters with antiseptic, and I wince slightly at the sting. Then he carefully applies the bandages, his movements precise and practiced.
“You’re good at this,” I observe.
“Had to be. Combat medic training. Plus, you spend enough time building things, and you learn how to patch yourself up.”
He finishes one hand and moves to the other, his head bent over my palm. I watch him work, noticing details I haven’t allowed myself to notice before. The way his hair falls across his forehead, the concentration in his expression, the competence of his hands.
“There,” he says, finishing the second bandage. “Good as new. Well, almost.”
But he doesn’t let go of my hand. He just holds it, his thumb brushing across my wrist. He looks up at me, and there’s something in his eyes that makes my breath catch.
“Eleanor…”
His phone rings, shattering the moment. He pulls back, checks the screen, and sighs.
“It’s Boone. Probably forgot something.” He answers. “Hey, what’s up?” I can hear Boone’s voice, but not the words.“Yeah, no problem. I’ll bring it by tomorrow.”
Wyatt hangs up and looks at me apologetically.
“He left his good hammer. Did you know that men have a good hammer? Anyway,” he says, “he needs it first thing in the morning.”
“A good hammer is important.”
My voice sounds normal, which is impressive because my heart is racing.
Wyatt stands, offering me his hand to help me up. When I take it, he pulls me to my feet, and for a moment, we’re standing very close, neither one of us moving.
“Today was good,” he says quietly.
